When It Rains
by Elea24
Summary: A story about Galador and Gilmith, the children of Imrazôr the Númenórean who dwelt in Belfalas, and the Elven-lady Mithrellas. Fluff, romance and angst abound!
1. Prologue

**When It Rains**

**Prologue: "What becomes of the broken-hearted?"**

Belfalas TA 2015

It was exactly the type of day that Mithrellas loved. The bright summer sun brought a renewed colour to the garden and the petals of each flower were highlighted with a soft glow. The wind whispered softly through the leaves of the nearby trees, bringing with it the scent of salt, tingeing the air and mixing with the floral scent of the garden. Faintly she could hear the distant lull of the waves on the calm sea, a lone cry of a gull in flight.

At times like this Mithrellas felt truly at peace. In such calm she could more easily reflect on the events in her past with distant eyes. Running her fingers delicately over the petals of a nearby flower, she thought back to some of the grief in her life: the home she had left for her love of her dearest friend Nimrodel, only to lose her; the loss of her kin, her lord; and the love she had found and fought so hard against. She had searched for so long in those distant days, trying desperately to find Nimrodel, find her companions…find herself…, but it had all come to naught. When, finally, she had reached Edhellond it had been too late to reach her lord, and Amroth had perished. The grief she had felt then, the anguish and the helplessness, were still etched vividly in her mind. She had felt so desperately alone and so utterly lost. Until Imrazôr found her.

Even now, just thinking of his name made her smile. Imrazôr had been her saviour –a joy unexpected and unhoped for in times of despair. There had been several opportunities over the years to make her way across the sea with her brethren, but still she stayed. She could not part from him. It felt almost as if she was inexorably drawn to him, unable to keep him and incapable of letting him go. Imrazôr: the mortal man whom she had taken as her husband. Her path in life had been sealed from the first, and she must tread those fateful steps…no matter how painful it would one day prove to be.

"Nana! Nana, look!"

Mithrellas glanced up to see her darling little daughter running towards her, hands cupped together around some new excitement she had discovered.

"Nana, look!" Gilmith's beaming face looked up expectantly at her mother. Her thick dark curls and silvery grey eyes were that of a true Númenórean and both in the image of her father. Her features though, soft and delicate, were much like her mother's and a testament to her elven heritage.

Mithrellas knelt down to see what was nestled in her daughter's palms. She gently pushed the little fingers apart, revealing the dainty creature inside, and smiled.

"It is really pretty is it not, Nana?" Gilmith bounced around from foot to foot. "Can I keep it? Please. I will look after it, I promise."

Mithrellas' smile saddened a little as she shook her head. "I am sure you would look after it vey well, my darling, but I am afraid you cannot keep it." Gently, she extricated the little creature from her daughter's hold and placed it carefully on a nearby flower. There it sat, on its newfound home, contentedly flexing its wings.

Gilmith's lip began to wobble. "But I wish to keep it," she whined.

"I know, darling. But their lives are very short," Mithrellas soothed. "It will only have but a few more days to live and then its beautiful life will be gone from our sight." She reached out to tenderly smooth dark curls away from her daughter's forehead, a desolate look marring her face. "We must not shut it away for the duration of the little time it has left. Its life is too short and precious. Let it go now, dearest. I would not have you break your tender heart to watch it fade." She blinked quickly, preventing any unshed tears from forming.

Gilmith nodded slowly, before, with a shriek of delight, her attention was caught by the sight of her father and brother over her mother's shoulder, broad smiles on their faces as they entered the garden. Gilmith was deftly swept up into the arms of her father for a swift embrace and a kiss on the cheek before, giggling, she wriggled out of his hold and, throwing a quick mischievous look at her brother, skipped off across the grass. Galador walked over to his mother briefly for a cursory hug, permitting her to kiss him on the top of his head, before running off to chase his sister.

"Have you had a pleasant afternoon, beloved?" Imrazôr came up behind his wife, wrapping his arms about her waist and nuzzling at the nape of her neck.

"Very pleasant, my love," Mithrellas replied breezily, keeping a watchful eye on her happily frolicking children. "How did our son fare on your sailing trip?"

Imrazôr chuckled. "He did very well, all things considered. I let him use the tiller this time and he managed it quite steadily for a boy of his age." Mithrellas did not miss the pride in his voice, his love for his family forever steadfast and unerring. "Perhaps all four of us can go together next time? As a family. I believe Gilmith will enjoy it."

Turning her head to one side, Mithrellas looked up to see his face – so handsome and so beloved. He was, perhaps, not as fair as those of her own race, but he was infinitely beautiful in her eyes. Loving, compassionate and strong. So much to hold, and so much to lose.

"Yes, I should like that very much." As she leant back into the strong, welcoming arms of the mortal man she loved with all her heart, she tried not to let her melancholy breach her happy afternoon. She knew very well that had no hope of sharing his fate, nor he hers, but, for now, she would find contentment in her family – her life, her joy.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: "All my fond heart longs to say"**

Belfalas TA 2043

Another flutter of nervous anticipation surged through Gilmith's body. She tapped her foot lightly on the floor, unable to keep wholly still as her mother fastened the intricate lacing on her gown. The day she had been waiting for had arrived –she was finally going to marry Istaeron!

Her heart gave a little skip at the thought. She loved and adored him, and had done so ever since that very first glance, when their eyes had met across the courtyard almost two years ago. He had stood there, tall, proud and handsome, looking at her as if he could see straight into the deepest depths of her soul. With that one look, just that one glance, she had known that he was the only man who could capture her heart. None other had ever caught her attention in that way before. There had been several suitors of course, but she had never come close to marrying any of them. Until now!

She bit her lip as an excited giggle tried to escape her. The tension in her body caused her hands to shake slightly. It was strange that she should be so nervous after waiting so long for this very event. But now it came to it, a thousand tiny doubts started to wiggle their way into her thoughts. What if she could not make him happy? He was so strong, so capable and sure of himself, always knowing exactly what to do and how to go about it. Gilmith knew that she lacked that kind of confidence. She was never particularly decisive and was a little shy, and surely a man like Istaeron needed a strong and capable wife.

Her mother laughed behind her. "Dearest, if you keep moving about as you do, your gown will never be fastened." Mithrellas circled around to face her daughter, a radiant smile on her face. "You look beautiful, my darling. Istaeron is a very fortunate man. I have no doubts that the two of you will be extremely happy together." She ran her hand lightly down the silvery blue fabric of the skirt, making sure it would not crease. "This gown suits you very well I think. It matches your eyes." Her laughter tinkled like a light spring rain. "You look like you have just emerged from the sea."

Gilmith blushed. "Istaeron once said I reminded him of the sea."

"Indeed? In what way?"

"I do not now," Gilmith admitted, looking down at her hands. "I did not ask."

"Then perhaps you can ask him tonight when you are alone together." A knowing look glittered in Mithrellas' eyes.

Gilmith felt her face burn as she fiddled with the fabric that her mother had just smoothed. Yes, that was another consideration –her wedding night. That was something she was most _definitely_ nervous about. She knew the basics, but aside from that, she had very little practical knowledge of that area. What if she did something horribly wrong? Behaved foolishly? Could she ruin her marriage before it had even begun?

Mithrellas stepped towards her daughter, gently lifting her face so she could look her in the eye. "Darling, do not be nervous. You love Istaeron a great deal, as I know he does you. This will be a venture that you will embark on together. Do not be afraid, Istaeron will guide you. All you have to do is trust in him."

Gilmith smiled and nodded, heartened by her mother's words. "I do, Naneth. I do trust him. And I am sure that he loves me. He has never said those words exactly, but that I think that is just his way." She laughed. "He is a warrior after all, and since when did they ever speak of their feelings." Her brother Galador certainly never did, she mused, and yet she had never doubted that he loved her dearly.

She looked down at her dress, carefully smoothing the fabric of the bodice, lost in silent contemplation for a moment. "I have waited so long for this day, Nana. I cannot help but feel a little anxious that somehow something will prevent it."

Mithrellas could not help laughing. "Oh, darling, I hardly think Istaeron would stand for any more delays. I think he would have wedded you soon after you first met had your father not insisted on a suitable courtship and year-long engagement.

Gilmith scoffed in disbelief. "It may have been a _suitable_ courtship, Naneth, but it was also most decidedly crowded! I do not think we were alone together once without Galador keeping a beady eye on us. I cannot quite imagine what he suspected Istaeron and I would get up to in public, in the plain sight of all our peers, yet he always insisted on accompanying me everywhere. It was most tiresome."

"Count yourself very lucky, my dear. I met your father fifteen years before we were wed, so your wait was a short one," Mithrellas countered, giggling at her daughter's indignation.

"Yes, but you and Ada were in a difficult situation. Things were different: you had much more to consider."

_And much more to lose_, Mithrellas thought sadly, a brief look of sorrow crossing her face as she nodded in reply. She brightened quickly. "Would you rather your father and I had married you off straight away, as soon as you were of age, without any thought to your situation or preferences?"

"No, Nana, never." Gilmith shook her head. "If you had I would never have met Istaeron." A wistful smile broke across her face as her thoughts turned to her betrothed.

How wonderful it was, Mithrellas thought, to see her beloved daughter radiant with joy. She lifted her arms and wrapped them around Gilmith, bringing her into a loving embrace. "I am so happy for you, dearest. I have never seen you more content and fulfilled. You truly come alive when you are in Istaeron's company, and that is as it should be. I remember feeling much the same with your father."

Gilmith's eyes glassed over as she nodded and gently disengaged herself from her mother's hold. "I am very lucky, Naneth. I know that."

"You are certainly very lucky that Istaeron was willing to settle in Belfalas for your sake." With a smile, Mithrellas inclined her head, knowing full well that Istaeron had moved permanently to Belfalas only a very short time after he and Gilmith had first met. Even at the time she had doubted it was a coincidence.

"He knew I would never wish to be parted from my family." Gilmith smiled lovingly as she thought of how considerate Istaeron could be. "He was assured by the king that, so long as he would do his duty to Gondor, he could make his home were he wished. He is very fortunate to be in the king's favour." She stopped. "Or rather, he _was_ fortunate. I confess, I do not know what the situation will be like under the reign of the new king. I do hope King Eärnur will not insist that Istaeron move back to Minas Tirith."

Mithrellas frowned thoughtfully for a few moments. "Yes," she said finally, "times among men are certainly changing. Too much." She sighed. "I believe your brother will need a great deal of your support as he takes on more of your father's responsibilities. I do not think it will be easy for him." Her eyes were distant, briefly showing a pained look of knowing the inevitable, but being unable to do anything about it.

Gilmith took her mother's hand in her own and gave it a little squeeze. "Of course, Galador will always have my support. I may be getting married, but I should never wish to be parted from any of you. Our family means a great deal to me."

A great desolate pain haunted Mithrellas' eyes and, for a brief moment, Gilmith could see the glint of unshed tears. "Nana?" she asked, concerned. "Naneth, are you well?"

Mithrellas placed her hand lightly on her daughter's cheek and looked longingly into her eyes. "_Gwilwileth nin,_" she murmured softy, her voice almost breaking.

In a moment, it was gone. Mithrellas' head snapped up and, steeling herself, she forced a smile on her face. "Now," she said breezily, bustling around the room, "let us get this gown of yours laced up. It certainly would not do for you to be late for your own marriage ceremony, now would it?"

Gilmith smiled, all her thoughts now once again focused on her betrothed.

Gwilwilith nin = my butterfly (I think…)


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: "When all this world was there for us"**

Galador could not remember ever seeing his father's hall this full. Everywhere he looked there seemed to be people drinking, dancing, talking and just generally making merry. Nothing like a wedding to bring distant relatives and grasping opportunists out of the woodwork, he mused. Though, looking over to his smiling sister –radiant and beautiful as she danced in the arms of her new husband –it was not too difficult to see why so many people would want to share in her joy. Gilmith was popular and well loved; her sweet, if slightly shy, nature and sunny disposition endeared her to many people.

She was somewhat of a contrast to her brother in that regard. Like Gilmith, Galador himself had a considerate and easygoing nature, but unlike his sister, he was much wearier with his favour. Totally and unerringly devoted to his family and close circle of friends, it took a lot to gain Galador's trust and admittance to his inner circle.

As he stood for a few moments, observing the newlywed couple, it occurred to Galador that, even after a lengthy engagement, Istaeron was still not counted among that select group. Perhaps that would soon change. Galador liked Istaeron. He seemed a good man, and appeared to make Gilmith very happy. Only time would tell if he would make her a good husband though, and, for his sister's sake, Galador was not willing to put too much faith in his new brother-in-law just yet.

"She looks happy, does she not?"

Galador turned to see his father approach behind him. Despite Imrazôr's claims that he was in what he referred to as the 'winter years' of his life, his stature and bearing held testament to his proud and noble lineage. Both his mind and body were still strong and capable and his shining spirit still drew others to him like moths to a flame.

However, even Galador had to admit, when his father stood beside his ever beautiful and ageless wife as they did now, arm in arm, the years of Imrazôr's life seemed more marked on is appearance. Mithrellas never seemed to alter; always she looked fair and youthful, the wisdom of ages behind her eyes.

He nodded in answer to his father's question. "Yes, I believe she is."

"I admit," said Imrazôr, moving to stand beside his son, "I may have been a little unfair to them both, making them wait for such a long time, but I needed to ensure that Istaeron was a good match for her. She is my only daughter after all."

Mithrellas laid her free hand gently on her husband's forearm. "You acted out of concern for her, my beloved. Gilmith understands that, and she loves you all the more for it."

Imrazôr took hold of the hand she had placed on his arm and planted a brief kiss on her palm before turning to his son. "You will understand one day if you ever have daughters of your own."

Galador could not stop his eyes from briefly flickering to the other side of the room. "Ah, yes," Imrazôr smiled, noticing the recipient of his son's swift glance, "and why have you not yet asked the lovely Suiliel to dance?"

Galador looked away quickly, his voice somewhat brusque. "I am not in a good enough humour to dance at the moment I fear."

"Dearest." Mithrellas moved around to face her son, gently reaching out to take his hand. "Today is a day of joy and celebration. Leave your cares and duties for a short time. I would wish to see you smile." Her delicate face was filled with such tenderness that Galador could not help returning her gentle smile.

"Then, mother, to make you happy I shall claim my right as a brother to a dance with the bride." He quickly strode across the room to where his sister was finishing a dance with her husband, hoping that put an end to the subject.

"May I have the next dance?" he asked pleasantly as the couple turned towards him on his approach. "Of course, brother." Gilmith beamed, then, looking at her husband a little guiltily, asked, "You do not object, do you, Istaeron?"

"No, I believe I can part with you for one dance," said Istaeron lightly, turning to his brother-in-law. "After all, I have the delight of your sister's company for the rest of our long days together from now on, do I not?"

"Indeed you do." Galador nodded, not failing to notice the slightly possessive hold Istaeron now had on Gilmith's waist. The corners of his mouth to tilted up a little in amusement. Perhaps he would make her a good husband.

"I am surprised, brother," Gilmith said once they were dancing together. "You always profess to dislike dancing with me."

"I do?" Galador sounded amused.

"Last time you accused me of almost breaking your foot."

"And so you nearly did, sister, yet I observed none of your usual reticence for dancing when you were with your husband just now."

Gilmith blushed a little. "I do not feel as awkward when I dance with Istaeron. He makes me feel…" She sighed and shrugged lightly. "Oh, I do not have the words to describe it"

Galador grinned at the sight of his sister's embarrassment. His father was right; Gilmith's face was defused with joy and pleasure. His grin, however, promptly disappeared when said sister jabbed a finger abruptly into his forearm.

"And why," Gilmith accused, "are you dancing with me and not the fair Suiliel?" Her eyebrows arched in mock incredulity.

Galador attempted, not wholly successfully, to laugh with bewildered amusement. "Have married women nothing better to do than matchmake others?"

She frowned. "I would not know, I have not been married long enough to say. But truly, Galador –I know that you like her, and she clearly likes you in return. Why must you insist on being so fastidious?"

Galador could feel his temper rising. Why did she insist on pestering him? Had he not made his feelings clear on the matter? Taking in a swift breath to control his irritation, he opted for a look of slightly mocking derision. "As you have not yet been married a day, sister, you will forgive me if I do not ask you for advice on such matters." It had perhaps, come out a little harsher than he intended but she had backed him into a corner, so he could not take it back now.

Gilmith, observing the tense set of her brother's shoulders and vexed undercurrent of his tone, decided it would be better not to tease him further. She had only meant to jest but, despite his occasional appearance of aloofness and tight control, she could see that he was not as unaffected by Suiliel as he pretended to be. Why he should be so reticent and reluctant was a mystery to her. He was a very handsome and honourable man with not a little charm and a comfortable situation to offer. Most women would, and often did, fall all over themselves to gain his favour. She shook her head slightly in bewilderment. Still, there was no time to question him on it, as the dance was just coming to an end.

A warm hand settled on her waist; a low voice from behind her brushed past her ear, "I believe it is time for me to claim my wife back."

Gilmith could not prevent the shiver of excitement that ran down her spine as Istaeron spun her around into his arms. She was only vaguely aware of her brother slipping away, a wry smile on his face as he left the young couple together.

"Did you miss me?" Istaeron murmured against her temple, his arms holding her close.

Gilmith lifted her head and basked in the mesmerising gaze, his intense grey eyes searing deep into her soul, and was unable to keep herself from openly displaying the look of wonder that must surely have been evident on her face. He was so enthralling, strong and confident. Much more than she could ever have hoped to have and yet she doubted that she would ever have enough of him to satisfy her.

Nevertheless, she tried to add a hint of flippancy to her tone when she replied, "We have only been parted for one dance, my lord. Is that so long?"

"Precisely. Far too much time apart." A roguish smile lit his face. "I have waited so long for the right to have you in my arms, Gilmith," he whispered. "And I can promise you that I am not going to waste a single moment." He glanced across the room before spotting Imrazôr charming and entertaining many of the guests. "I believe our guests are well provided for in your father's care now, Gilmith." His eyes, dark and smouldering, became locked on her own with a captivating intensity. "I think is time we started our life together –as husband and wife."

Gilmith could do nothing but nod mutely as Istaeron took her hand and led her out of the hall. A shiver of delicious anticipation ran through her veins at the realisation that finally, terrifyingly, she was about to truly become this man's wife.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: "Yours with every breath"**

Gilmith awkwardly perched on the edge of her marital bed. The maid had just left, having helped her into the light shift which she now wore, and she now sat waiting for her husband. With no idea what she was meant to do, she nervously wrung her fingers over and over; her hands clenched in her lap, her anxiety steadily increasing. Should she get under the bedcovers… or would Istaeron wish to lead her to the bed himself? Should she undress herself now? Or, perhaps, her husband intended to do that? Was there something she was meant to be doing whilst she waited? Thousands of questions filled her mind, fanning the feelings of insecurity and embarrassment.

Gilmith sighed in frustration as she leant forward, her hands cupping her forehead, her elbows pressed uncomfortably onto her knees, but a sound from the other side of the room made her head snap up quickly. Istaeron came through the door from the chamber beyond, carrying a goblet in each hand. Like herself, he had changed out of his clothes and was now wearing a fine robe of a deep rich red.

Perhaps the terrified look was clear in her eyes because Istaeron moved towards her very slowly, as one would do when approaching a cornered animal, and sat down beside her on the bed, gently pressing one of the goblets into her hands.

"To celebrate our marriage," he said gently, indicating the wine.

Gilmith took it gratefully, sipping the heady liquid slowly. It gave her something to wrap her shaking fingers around and an opportunity to avert her eyes to the dark depths within the cup. The silence seemed to stretch on interminably as they both drank. Finally, when Gilmith felt enough courage to look up, she saw Istaeron gaze at her intently, his eyes soft and full of concern.

"You are feeling nervous?" he asked.

Gilmith tried to answer but no words would come. Her breath shuddered erratically as her heart thudded wildly in her chest, the loud pounding of her heartbeat was the only sound that reverberated through her head. She attempted at a trembling apologetic smile before quickly fixing her sight back down on her goblet.

Tenderly, Istaeron's fingers brushed down her cheek, tipping her chin upwards, forcing her eyes to meet with his own.

"I will not ask you to do something you do not wish to do, Gilmith," he murmured. "But I would show you how things can be between a husband and wife. Will you let me show you?"

Gilmith felt her throat tighten. Not from anxiety this time, but from a surge of emotion which his words provoked. He was such a considerate husband and how lucky was she to be able to call him her own. She swallowed hard and nodded in short jerking movements – it was all she could manage. She looked him in the eyes and with a swift exhalation of breath whispered, "Show me. Please."

Istaeron removed the goblet from her hands, placing both dishes on the bedstand. Turning back to Gilmith, he reached out to cup the back of her neck and with the other he stroked a thumb gently over her cheek. He moved towards her slowly, his deep magnetic gaze never leaving her until, finally, their lips met. It was a gentle kiss at first, soft and caressing, his lips just grazing hers ever so lightly. Gradually, as he felt her relax a little, he coaxed her lips apart, deepening the kiss and his ardour.

Gilmith had been kissed by Istaeron before – on one of those very rare occurrences when they had managed to evade her brother's watchful gaze – but those kisses had been in brief stolen moments; kisses that spoke of what could be more than they actually delivered. This kiss was different. She could feel all those promises come to life under the passionate caresses of his mouth: the desire, the longing, the wanting, and most of all, the pent up frustration at having been denied this for so long.

Timidly, Gilmith found enough courage to take the initiative. Sensing this, Istaeron pulled back from the kiss slightly, allowing her the opportunity to tentatively explore his mouth. He tasted of wine and of need, and Gilmith could not get enough of it, intensifying the kiss through her own desire.

But then his lips moved away leaving her feeling momentarily bereft. Instead, Istaeron softly kissed the contours of her face: her eyes, her cheeks, nose, and temples were all gently caressed by the soft brush of his mouth.

Gilmith felt at a loss, unsure of what to do now or how to respond, if at all. As Istaeron continued, seemingly unaware of the tension in her body, Gilmith became more acutely aware of the total silence in the room, save only for their heavy breathing.

Wanting to break that silence somehow, Gilmith attempted to speak. "Istaeron?" she breathed raggedly, her breath constricting in her throat. Desperately she reached for the first thing to cross her befuddled mind. "Why…" She swallowed. "Why did you say I reminded you of the sea?"

She felt Istaeron's lips curve into a smile against her skin.

"Because, my beauty," Istaeron whispered, kissing one eyelid, then the other, "like the sea you are gentle and calming…" His hands slid down to her shoulders, smoothing his palms along her quivering flesh, reverently pushing aside the fabric to bare the delicate skin. "…cool and smooth to the touch…," he continued, kissing across her cheek to the sensitive place behind her ear and his tongue darted out wickedly to trace whirling patterns against it.

Gilmith gasped in a mixture of shock and pleasure. Never had she imagined that such an ordinary place could be so sensitive, or that her body could respond to such caresses as gleefully. Without realising, her hands gripped in his hair, keeping his delicious attention close to her, with a soft low moan escaping her lips.

Istaeron drew away from her slowly, taking in the sight of her flushed cheeks and partially closed eyes. A satisfied smile lit his face. "Vital, voracious, full of life…"

He slipped her shift from her shoulders and down her arms, his fingers following the paths of her descending neckline until, finally, her torso was bared to his admiring gaze. "And beautiful to behold," he finished, staring openly at her nakedness, seemingly mesmerised.

Instinctively, Gilmith covered herself with her arms. No man had ever seen her like this and suddenly she felt incredibly vulnerable. Istaeron stopped her, lightly grasping her wrists.

"No," he whispered huskily. "Do not be shy. Man and woman were made for each other. I must see you fully, as you must see me."

Gently guiding one of her hands, Istaeron placed the palm on his exposed skin, encouraging her to undress him in the same way. Tentatively, Gilmith pushed the lapel of his robe away, baring more of his broad torso to her sight. Her hand slowly began to explore the contours of his chest. She gazed in fascination at the hard rippling of his muscles, her fingers skimming along the soft curling hair covering his chest. She could feel her cheeks burning, but, glancing at her husband, it appeared that he did not consider her as foolish as she felt herself to be. His expression showed something quite different: satisfaction, or perhaps pride.

Feeling a little bolder, she ran her hands up to his shoulders, echoing his own movements of before, and slid his robe down his arms until, like herself, he was also bare. This time it was her turn to openly stare in fascination.

Smiling at her, Istaeron planted a soft kiss on her lips, before deftly pulling back the bedcovers and slowly guiding her down onto the bed. Reverently, he removed the rest of her night-gown, his palms ghosting over her curves as he did so. He stood up and removed his robe and the rich material fell to the floor with a soft thud.

He towered over her, completely comfortable with his nakedness. His broad, finely-sculpted chest tapered down to his lean hips and muscular thighs, but Gilmith's gaze became caught by the evidence of his desire. She was enthralled, and not a little scared.

But it was so… Surely it could not…

Her thoughts were drowned out as Istaeron joined her on the bed, kissing her softly while his hands gently stroked down her curves, around her waist, down her thighs, helping her become accustomed to the intimacy of his touch. Gilmith felt her body relax, her back slumping languorously into the pillows at his caresses.

Finally pulling back from the kiss, Istaeron cradled her cheek with his palm. "Gilmith, you know there may be some pain?" His eyes sought for hers carefully.

Gilmith nodded in response, still a little breathless.

"I will do my best to lessen your discomfort as much as I can, but I should like you to enjoy this as well. I wish for you to know how our marriage will be." His lips grazed down her neck, then rained kisses deliciously down her body. Gilmith felt her back arch upwards involuntarily, bringing herself closer to the temptation that his mouth was providing.

His lips came back up to capture hers forcefully in another heated kiss. His tongue seeking and demanding set her blood on fire.

So enthralled was she in the kiss, that she did not notice the movement of his hand until his fingers were at her opening, probing, easing into her depths. It felt almost too intimate an act and Gilmith was horribly conscientious of herself. Her muscles tightened in alarm. At the same time she could not help the flush of excitement at what he was doing – thrillingly, intoxicatingly shocking and new. His other hand stroked her hair; his kiss soothed her and his voice whispered reassurances, until her body gradually calmed again. He stroked her, caressed her, slowly gentling her to the unaccustomed imposition.

Once Istaeron sensed she had relaxed, he moved his body to cover hers, taking his weight on his forearms and looking deep into her eyes, his gaze captivating and unwavering from her face. She felt his desire probe lightly at her opening – seeking entry. "Are you ready?" he whispered softly with his eyes still locked on hers.

Gilmith looked up at his beloved face and saw the tenderness and passion etched across his features. She could not refuse him – and she had absolutely no wish to. She belonged to him, she always had, and she wanted – needed – everything he was prepared to give. Reaching out to stroke his face, Gilmith nodded with a faint smile that lit her face.

Istaeron framed her face tenderly in his hands and kissed her softly. "Gilmith," he said simply, as her entered her, his movements slow and gentle.

Gilmith's fingers clenched into his shoulder. She bit down hard on her bottom lip, but not before a little cry had escaped her. There was a sharp burning sensation. Her muscles contracted tightly in indignation at this intrusion. It felt horribly uncomfortable, and for a moment she wanted to push him away, just so it would stop.

But then Istaeron's lips were on her own; teasing, coaxing, soothing. It gave her a focus. Gradually, she felt her body begin to relax as she kissed him back, concentrating all her desire and passion into the kiss.

Fully seated within her, Istaeron broke the kiss and looked into her eyes searchingly. His voice was infinitely tender as he murmured, "I am sorry, my darling. Was it very painful for you?"

"It… a little," Gilmith admitted quietly. "But it does not feel quite so… uncomfortable anymore."

"Can you bear it if I move?" His gaze was filled with so much concern for her that, had she not loved him already, Gilmith knew she would have fallen in love with him then simply for that.

She nodded slowly, meeting his gaze so that he could be reassured by the love and trust in her eyes. He began to move again, and this time it did not feel so uncomfortable. In fact, it actually felt quite nice. His lips found hers once more and she met his passion with her own. Feeling braver, she slowly ran her hands over his back with soft feathering touches, until she reached his buttocks. Boldly, she gripped them lightly. Istaeron made a noise in his throat that sounded a lot like a growl against her lips.

It excited her beyond belief.

The tempo increased. His lips were at her neck, murmuring her name, feeding the frenzied feeling that was growing within her. A warm glow pooled in her stomach, gradually spreading out to the rest of her body, leaving her breathless. She lifted herself to meet him, matching his pace, taking what he offered her and giving herself up to him completely.

Watching him reach his culmination was one of the most wondrous things Gilmith had ever seen. In that moment, he looked exposed and open to her. No longer simply the strong, undefeated warrior, but vulnerable and uncovered to her sight. A deep, primitive sense of satisfaction and tenderness flooded her at the thought that she had done that – _she_ was the cause of this beautiful and powerful man's pleasure as he had called out _her_ name upon his climax. And in that moment came an astonishing and humbling realisation. Yes, she had given herself over to him, exposed – but so had he. This was something they had shared together, equally, and in that there was a wonderful sense of intimacy.

Istaeron kissed her briefly on the lips before rolling onto the bed, pulling her into his warm embrace. Their breathing was heavy and already Gilmith could sense that he was being lulled by the same slumberous feeling that she was.

His arms tightened around her protectively. "Thank you for giving me such a wonderful gift, Gilmith."

She turned to kiss the corner of his mouth. "Thank you for sharing it with me." She yawned, snuggling into his chest. "I love you, Istaeron," she breathed, her eyelids falling heavily as she gradually slipped into sleep.

Istaeron kissed the top of her head. "Sweet dreams, my beautiful wife."


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: "You will find that the world has changed forever"**

Gilmith awoke to the faint sounds of the outside world – the clattering and clamour of the awakening household busily beginning the day. Istaeron's bare chest was pressed against her back, the warm weight of his arm curled around her waist. Instinctively she snuggled further into his embrace, and though she tried not to wake him, the movement must have disturbed him because his mouth moved to nuzzle at her ear. "Good morning, wife of mine." A satisfied drawl was clearly evident in his tone.

"Good morning, husband," she returned breathlessly as he nibbled lightly at the tender flesh behind her ear. She giggled and squirmed at the feeling, twisting away from the wicked attention as she turned her face to look at him. "We should rise. The rest of the household are already making preparations for the day."

Istaeron looked amused. "I do not see why we have any need to. We are a newly married couple, Gilmith. No one would expect to rise early this day. Besides," he intercepted quickly as she was about to argue, "I have other ideas in mind for you." He pulled her back into his arms and kissed her soundly, wiping away any objections.

How long they stayed in that kiss neither knew, but both felt cruelly interrupted by the unexpected sound of a tentative knock at the door. Istaeron rolled away with a groan as Gilmith gasped, quickly bolting upwards into a sitting position, clutching the bed sheet to her chest guiltily.

"Yes?" Istaeron barked, making no attempt to get out of the bed. His brows came down in a formidable glower at having been disrupted.

A timid voice came through the door. "Forgive me for disturbing you, my lord, but my lady's brother, Lord Galador, is here. He says that he must speak to you and my lady immediately, on a matter of urgency."

Istaeron looked even more put out at that information. He dismissed the unfortunate messenger curtly before turning to Gilmith. "I had thought," he gritted out in frustration, "that once we were married, it would put a stop to the consistent pestering of your brother."

"He is just protective," Gilmith defended loyally. "It has been that way ever since I was a child."

Istaeron pulled her gently back down onto the bed, his hands planted on either side of her head, trapping her within his arms. "You are no longer his to protect." His lips brushed lightly against her mouth. "You are mine."

Gilmith felt her face redden from the heat of her blushes as she tried to move back up into a sitting position. It was to no avail. Istaeron kept her easily caged beneath his body with an amused smile and a satisfied gleam in his eyes as he watched her flush with embarrassment, trying to wriggle free. The heat from his body, the smell of him, was enough to make her heart beat franticly and her face to flush even more.

She tried a different tactic. "I believe it would be best to get dressed. Galador said it was a matter of urgency. It would be rude to keep him waiting."

Istaeron grinned at her rather feebly delivered attempt at escape, rolling his eyes as he released her from his hold. "Very well. I suppose one look at your delightfully flushed face would be enough to convince him that your virtue is no longer in need of guarding."

Gilmith's cheeks burned furiously, her eyes widening in shock, her mouth gaping open wordlessly, as a tiny squeak of indignation escaped her throat. She wanted to say something, perhaps chastise him for such a shocking comment, but her mind was blank. All she could see was his teasing smile, the wicked glint in his eyes as he leaned over to kiss her hard and swiftly on the mouth. He rolled off the bed, quickly locating his clothes and dressing with a swift economy of movements.

Gilmith tried very hard not to stare.

Lifting herself out of the bed whilst his back was turned she found her under dress and quickly pulled it down over her head. The over dress soon followed but her progress was impeded by the back lacing. She turned to face Istaeron. He had finished dressing and was staring at her, his face unreadable.

"Could... would you mind assisting me with my lacing?" she asked shyly.

"Of course." Istaeron stood behind her as she moved her hair over her shoulder out of the way, his fingers slowly moved up her spine, securing the laces as he went. Even through the material of her under dress, his fingers burned against her skin making her stomach flip and her spine tingle with goose-bumps. She looked for something, anything to distract her, or Valar help her, she would not be able to look her brother in the face.

"I should be scandalised by what you said to me earlier," she ventured. "But I believe you only said it because you like to shock me."

"Ah, well to that I regret that I must plead guilty." His fingers finished the last of the lacing and lingered at her nape drawing slow languorous patterns into a caress. "You just look so beautiful when you blush."

Gilmith felt her cheeks burn yet again, feeling too shy to reply, and wondered if she would spend the rest of her days with her face a permanent shade of red.

Removing his hands from her neck, Istaeron turned her around and kissed her softly, before taking her hand and leading her from the room. "Come, let us find that wretched brother of yours, before I lock the both of us in this bedchamber for the foreseeable future."

Gilmith's laughter floated down the halls. If this was married life then she would most certainly take it, wholeheartedly – red face or no.

"Galador," Gilmith beamed as she crossed the room to greet her brother. "I did not expect to see you so soon," she began to say, before she stopped short, noticing the hard, impenetrable look on Galador's face. His breathing was shallow, laboured; tension emanated from him in waves. His whole body was stiff and something fierce and elemental flashed in his eyes. Gilmith felt an icy fear grip her heart suddenly for she had never seen her brother like this and it scared her.

"Gilmith," he said curtly, his eyes cold, his face set save for a muscle pulsating in the hard jut of his jaw. "Our mother is gone."

"What?" Shock momentarily rendered her motionless, transfixed to the floor. "Gone? What do you mean? Galador, has something happened? Please, tell me!"

"She departed during the night for the Grey Havens," he replied tonelessly, his hand briefly clenched so tightly into a fist at his side that Gilmith could see the shocking white of his knuckles.

"No, that cannot be right!" Gilmith shook her head. "She must have gone to Edhellond to visit the home of her brethren. I am surprised, though, that she did not tell us she was planning a visit. And father too." She felt some of the tension within her release at her brother's obvious mistake. "I admit I have been a little preoccupied with the wedding but surely they could have mentioned it to me before." She continued to prattle on about recent events, cheerfully wondering when her parents would return and what they might encounter on their trip, unnerved by Galador's demeanour, willing him to recognise his mistake – to take his words back.

Galador sighed heavily, muttering an oath of frustration under his breath. "No, sister, you do not understand. She has gone, left us, she is travelling to the Grey Havens." His voice was hard and emotionless as he held a piece of parchment out to Gilmith. "She left behind this letter."

Silence. Only the thud of her heartbeat, reverberating with a heavy pulse in her ears could be heard by Gilmith. Slowly, she stretched out shaking fingers to receive the already hated item. She stared at it mutely, unseeing for several moments until eventually the devastating words seeped into her conscious thoughts. In that moment all hope of a mistake died – along with something else inside her that she could not name, leaving a dull emptiness in its wake. She felt numb, bereft, as if something had reached in and ripped out all her insides, an empty shell the only thing remaining.

Without noticing, the parchment slipped from her fingers to the floor. Before she could recognise even what she was doing, Gilmith was running from the room, through the house and out into the street, only vaguely aware of Istaeron calling her name. Her mind was blank except for the same fateful words repeated over and over inside her head. Her feet seemed to work of their own volition as they pounded against the ground.

She did not stop. Her legs ached and her chest burnt from the furious pace she maintained as she hurtled almost blindly through the streets, but she would not stop.

It was not until she passed the outskirts of the city, reaching the cliff top overlooking the Cobas Haven, that she finally came to a standstill. Shuddering breaths wracked her body as she desperately dragged air into her lungs. In the distance she could just make out the fateful boat, merely a tiny speck to her eyes, as it set out for the horizon.

"Naneth... Naneth!" she screamed. She cried out unrelentingly to her mother until her throat was stiff and burning. She had no idea how long she stood there screaming for her mother – she did not care – but then, finally, on a broken sob, admitting defeat, she whispered, "Come back."

Her legs buckled, her knees collapsed, seemingly unable to take the weight of her grief. Strong arms wrapped around her hauling her upwards before she crashed onto the ground. Vaguely she was aware of Istaeron murmuring soothing words in her ear as he supported her numb, lifeless body, and of Galador behind him, looking strained and resigned.

Istaeron held her tightly, one hand coming up to gently stroke her hair. "I am so sorry," he breathed. "I remember when my own mother died–"

"My mother has not died!" Gilmith pushed hard against his chest, angrily whipping her body out of his reach. Pain and anger coursed through her, indignation at how little he seemed to grasp her feelings. Her whole world was crashing around her. She did not want it justified, she did not want platitudes, she wanted to scream and rail against the hurt, to curl into a ball and weep until all the world passed her by.

"I know," Istaeron said gently reaching out a hand to her, "but, all the same, she cannot come back to you. You must grieve for her like you would the dead. You must, Gilmith."

"No! You do not understand." She shook her head furiously, trying to deny those awful words. The ship containing her mother had not even passed the horizon and he was speaking of death, of grief – acceptance! "She has _not_ died, she has left. She left! You cannot possibly know what that feels like! You cannot know!" She furiously pulled away from him, her whole body screaming in rejection as the tears ran down her face.

Wiping angrily at her face, her attention was caught by the silent figure of her brother, so sombre and silent, a look of pain and understanding etched onto his beloved features.

"Galador!"

Sobbing, she threw herself into her brother's arms and broke down completely.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: "Love pines away, love dwines away"**

Gilmith was little aware of how she had reached her father's household – the castle that stood proudly on the headland, looking across the great bay. She would remember Galador supporting her weight as he kept his arm firmly around her waist. She would remember Istaeron hovering protectively on her other side as if she might collapse. And she would remember that none of them spoke a word. Beyond that, Gilmith was aware of nothing. Not the streaks and blotches livid against her delicate features, not the trembling of her body as she leaned on her brother, nor the questioning looks of concern from those that passed her by.

As if some unspoken agreement had passed between them, Galador led her straight to their father's private chambers. She could not bear to look at him – the darling brother on whose strength she relied so greatly – for she knew what it was she would see. The pain that would be etched across his face would surely be that which was reflected on her own.

Haunted.

Bleak.

So little was she aware of, so numb and bewildered was she, that she barely responded when Istaeron assured her that he would remain outside in the corridor for her. She tried to nod, unsure of whether she was successful, until the door to the chamber opened and all thoughts of further response fled from her mind.

Imrazôr sat across the room in his favourite chair. He often sat there in the evenings beside the fire; the chair opposite usually seating his wife. But this day, that chair was empty, and Imrazôr was left to simply stare out of the window. His body was hunched and limp, his whole frame screaming defeat and misery.

Gilmith ran straight to her father, immediately crouching down beside his chair, covering his hand with her own and entwining their fingers. His felt so cold and lifeless. Imrazôr did not look at her, but stared unseeing out of the window – towards the sea. Her face full of concern still blotched and stained from her own tears, Gilmith almost wept again to see her father looking so despondent. It was difficult to believe that the grave figure in front of her was the noble and proud Imrazôr.

"Adar," she whispered. "Oh, Adar, I am so sorry."

He seemed to notice her then. Grey eyes, full of pain and confusion, slowly moved across to take in the sight of her beside him. "I cannot believe she is gone," he croaked eventually. "I suppose I imagined..." He shook his head in disbelief. "I never thought..."

It tore painfully at Gilmith's heart to see her father like this. He seemed bewildered, lost – as if his anchor had been cut away and he was simply left to drift alone on uncharted waters. It hurt Gilmith just to think of how much he adored his wife. He had battled so long to have her, to make her his own: fought against the wishes of his concerned family, his own reasoning, and not least the objections of Mithrellas herself. But he had known his own heart, had persisted, and never faltered from his quest. And never once had he given rise to believe that he regretted that decision.

"Ada..." Gilmith's fingers tightened around her father's hand, and she felt her chin wobble as she tried to push back the sob that escaped her lips.

Unsuccessfully it seemed, for wordlessly Imrazôr pulled her to him, into his embrace, cradling her in his arms as if she were a child again. He rocked her gently, his unseeing gaze slowly moved back to the window as Gilmith sobbed wretchedly in his arms.

Galador looked silently upon his father and sister. He stood across the room, barely over the threshold, keeping his distance from the display of grief in front of him. His father looked so old – so frail. It tore at him to see Imrazôr like this. His father had always been such a proud man, strong, infallible. Now he seemed so desolate – pitiful even. To see Imrazôr reduced to such a state caused bile to rise in Galador's throat. And his sister! Always so gentle was she – such a tender soul – now ravaged by tears and grief as she sought some little comfort in her father's embrace.

After a time Gilmith pulled away from her father slightly, slumping to her knees on the cold floor. Her breathing began to steady as she made a valiant effort to compose herself once more. "I just cannot believe..." She shook her head slightly. "My heart keeps telling me that there must be some mistake." She clutched at Imrazôr's hand. "Adar, did you know anything about this – of what she planned to do? Surely she would not have wanted to leave us... Could something have happened that we do not know about?"

"Do not be naive, Gilmith," Galador said sharply, catching the look of pain that flashed in Imrazôr's eyes. "You saw the letter with your own eyes," he accused angrily. "She has left us."

Accept it! He almost bit out before stopping himself. She did not disserve his anger. But why, _why_, did she insist on questioning an outcome that could not be altered? Selfishly, he almost wished his sister would return to those incoherent sobs of a few moments before. What possible use could questions do for any of them? Mithrellas was gone. Better they accept it and move on as soon as may be. It did no good to linger over such feelings, to keep scratching at scars.

"I… I realize that." Gilmith's mouth trembled again. "But why now? And why not tell us before? She gave us no warning! No chance to even say goodbye!" Her face crumpled as more tears were added to the lines on her cheeks. Galador turned his head away from the sight, clenching his hands into fists by his sides.

"Your mother left during a time of happiness," Imrazôr soothed his daughter. "An attempt to make it easier for us I suppose."

Galador's head snapped round. "If that was her intention then she clearly put little effort into envisaging the outcome of her actions," he sneered. "_This_ outcome." His hand shot out, indicating his sister's slumped and weeping form.

"Do not speak of your mother in such a disrespectful tone. Never speak of such things in my hearing again, boy!" Fury flashed across Imrazôr's face: some of the old spirit showing itself as he glared at his son.

Galador snorted in disbelief. "Surely you jest? Can you truly be surprised?" His whole body was rigid with tension, eyes flashing, his voice rising to a yell. "What respect did _she_ show _us_ when she departed without a word? You think I can forgive her for leaving when she should never have left us at all!

"She _chose_ this life! She willingly brought us into this world and promised her life to a mortal man. It was all of her own making so she damn should have well honoured that promise!"

Blood pounded in his ears at the power of his uncontrollable rage. He shook from the force of it, his eyes flashing at his father with a distain that would have been directed at his mother had she been able to receive it.

Imrazôr leapt from his chair, his anger evident in his fierce glower. "I will _not_," he commanded harshly, "have my wife spoken of in such a way – and certainly not in my own household!"

The two stood facing each other in silence for several long tense moments. The imposing figures of both men emanated with unspoken anger and resentment – challenging, fearsome.

"Then I shall go," Galador said simply, cutting through the thick tension in the room. He turned on his heels and made for the door. As his hand touched the handle he turned to face Imrazôr again. "Out of respect for you, Adar, I shall not speak a word out of turn regarding your wife. But know this much... I shall never, _ever_, forgive her for what she has done."


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: "What you never know won't hurt you"**

Galador stood alone on the shore. The waves rolled up the rocky beach to lap at his boots, the sea wind blew directly onto his face. One by one he picked up the small stones by his feet, hurtling them fiercely into the water to be swallowed completely by the waves – gone.

Why had she done it? _Why_?

Angrily, he threw another stone into the sea. Could she not have stayed longer? She, who was blessed with an immortal life, could she not have waited until at least her foolishly devoted husband had ended his life?

Imrazôr deserved that much. He had given his wife everything – loved her totally with every fibre of his being – and this was where it had brought him, to what it had reduced him – reduced them all. And all for the love of a woman who clearly cared so little. A love they had never sought to doubt, never questioned, so blinded were they to think that Mithrellas' love for them would be enough for her to stay. Galador certainly had never questioned his belief in his mother's devotion, always trusted, and oh, how the knowledge of that mocked him now. How bitterly he resented that misplaced faith.

More than anything he hated this weakness he felt, hated the lack of self-possession that he was usually known for. It only caused the rage to grip at him further. His unfettered anger burned so fiercely and deeply, that, in an act of self-protection, it slowly turned to icy steel – a savage control.

And yet, even then, he recognised the unpalatable truth that had he not loved his mother so very much, he perhaps would not be hurting as much as he was now.

But he did not want to hurt, to waste feelings on a woman who could be so cruel in her actions. He did not want these emotions that ripped his soul to be caused by a mother who had so ruthlessly abandoned her family.

Betrayed.

Her death would have been far easier to bear. That at least he would have been able to forgive. But not this...

Well no more. These feelings would come to an end and that end would be now he vowed, clamping down hard on the remnants of his battered emotions. He may have been a fool to believe in his mother's love, but he certainly was not going to behave like a maudlin child, weeping for his mother's affections.

Enough.

He was done with it. He would never make that mistake again.

"My lord?" A soft voice came from behind him – a voice he knew well. "Galador?" And spoken with such care and tenderness! He closed his eyes briefly, offering a silent plea to the Valar, who seemed intent on tormenting him. What had he ever done to deserve such punishment? His shoulders tensed as he turned to face the owner of the voice.

"Suiliel," he greeted curtly.

She stepped towards him, reaching out a hand as if to comfort him, quickly drawing it back as she saw the expression on his face, his flinch away from the anticipated touch.

"I have heard of your mother's departure. I am so deeply sorry to hear of it." Her words were softly spoken, her lovely face awash with concern. "Please forgive me for intruding on your solitude thus but I... I wished to know if there is anything I can do, for yourself or your family."

The words cut through Galador like a knife. Pity, kindness – he wanted neither. Particularly from the woman who stood before him now.

"What is it that you propose you can do for me, Suiliel?" Even to his own ears his voice sounded harsh, brutal.

Suiliel looked down at her hands, embarrassed, with a faint flush on her cheeks. "I wondered... perhaps I may be able to offer your sister some comfort. Help her with duties she may not feel up to at present. It is said that she was in an extremely distressed state when she was taken to your father's house."

Galador's lip curved in a sneer. "No doubt the gossips have been delighting in such a wonderful scandal. I suppose that is how you came to hear of it, no?"

"I would hope you consider me better than a common gossip." Her melodic voice was gentle, full of care, admiration and hopeful wonder – and oh, how it ripped through Galador to hear it. It tore at his savaged heart – the one place he absolutely would _not_ let her reach. "We have known each other many years, Galador. I still remember the times when you sparred in the training ring with my brother." A wistful smile lit her face. "I used to sneak out of the house so that I could watch the two of you. I still remember how I used to beg to be allowed to try my hand at the sword, but neither you nor my brother would ever permit me."

"Yes," Galador sighed. "I remember how tiresome we found you then." He turned away, his back rigid as he looked out to the sea, and his upper lip curled in contempt as he bit out, "I can see now that time has not altered much in that regard."

He heard her soft bewildered gasp behind him. Steeling himself, shutting himself away from feeling, he turned around, moving to stand directly in front of her. His stance was stiff and imposing, his face emotionless, save for the hard iciness of his eyes.

"Do not presume to know me, Suiliel."

Spinning on his heels abruptly he marched away, leaving her standing still and alone on the shore. He did not stop to look around, did not turn to see the expression of shock and hurt on her face – though he knew it was there, and the image haunted him as he stalked away.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: "That's what you get when you let your heart win" **

"Come now, daughter, dry your eyes."

Gilmith lifted her head from where it was tucked into her father's shoulder. The shock at Galador's angry outburst had caused tears to run afresh, and she was once again comforted by Imrazôr's strong and supportive embrace.

"You have a husband who is, I trust, anxious to take care of you. Go to him now."

As Imrazôr began to break away, Gilmith, loath to leave the warmth of his hold, reached out to cling to him.

"No, Adar, I beg you. I do not wish to leave you."

Her head was still reeling. Emotions she had not yet begun to fathom were stirring a tempest in her mind, leaving a surreal feeling of disorientation with the situation about her. All she knew was that here, with her father, she felt the familiar safety and reassurance which she had always enjoyed in her life up until now. It was relief to have him take her in his arms, to listen to his words of assurance and be comforted by them, just as she had done so many times in her childhood.

Imrazôr shifted away from her, shaking his head sadly.

"No, daughter, you must go. Forgive me..." He turned to face the window again, looking out across the bay. "I wish to be alone now."

Noises were made, people entered the room, and Gilmith was gently led away from her father's presence. But, in her confused state, much of what happened around her passed her by like remembered fragments of a dream upon waking. People, so many people, noise and murmurs, when all she wanted was to shut herself away, far from it all – the pitying looks, the hushed voices, the concerned gestures and consolations. To be alone and have a chance to sort the chaos in her mind away from prying eyes was all she desired. And despite her confusion, she was yet acutely aware of what a state she must look to others, and the knowledge of it pricked at her pride. Just enough was left amidst her befuddled thoughts to ensure the belief that she should maintain as much dignity as possible in the eyes of any onlookers. Difficult enough to crippled by grief – harder still to have it witnessed by others.

And so, with a deep breath, straightened shoulders, and as composed an air as she could manage, Gilmith proceeded to leave the home that she had always known, to return to the house of her husband which she had lived in for but a day.

Istaeron was outside the door waiting to greet her, reaching out immediately to put his arm protectively around her shoulder and gently speaking words of consolation. But as he tried to support her, Gilmith stiffly shook her bowed head and moved herself out of his reach. It was not that she did not appreciate his care, naturally she did, but, she simply could not cope with it now without losing her composure. Just the feel of his embrace would render her once again to pitiful tears, she was sure. His tender words would make her more fragile. For so often the softer words break through that protective layer more effectively than the harder.

She could only hope that her choice of independence from him would be recognised not as a rebuke, but as a plea for solitude, and that her husband would understand that, often, a woman's pride is no less indomitable than a man's.

But had she raised her head to see the bewildered, if not hurt, expression on his face, she perhaps would have thought better on it.

-

An age seemed to pass until Gilmith was finally able to lose her brave facade. She ran trembling into her new bedchamber, throwing herself across the bed, relieved at last in the quiet. The door fell shut behind her and, perhaps notably, Istaeron did not follow.

Sleep was fitful and broken. When Gilmith finally roused, her pillow was clammy and damp from tears, her throat was tight, her cheeks wet, and her eyes puffy. For a brief moment of disorientation, she forgot where she was and why she had been crying but as the realisation began to sink in she moaned and rolled onto her front, pressing her face deeper into the pillow.

Her thoughts turned to Istaeron. Had it only been a few hours earlier that she had been held so lovingly by him there in the bed? Those were the feelings, so new, exciting, and wonderful, that she wanted to surround her again, warming her aching heart. As if echoing a memory her arm stretched across the coverlet, but the empty space that greeted her fingers was cold and unwelcoming. He had not followed her to the bedchamber, and, frowning a little, Gilmith realised she had assumed that he would. Admittedly, she had not requested he do so, nor encouraged him, but he had been so kind and understanding that she could only wonder now at his change in concern for her.

A knock at the door put paid to these reflections and she hastily wiped her face.

"Come in."

As her chambermaid entered, Gilmith tried to ignore the sense of disappointment at not seeing Istaeron in the doorway and concentrated instead on composing herself.

"Forgive me for intruding, my lady, but Lord Istaeron asked that I check on you – to ensure you had everything you need. Lord Saelon has recently arrived to offer his condolences to yourself, but my lord has explained that you are currently indisposed."

These words succeeded in heartening Gilmith a little. Istaeron had obviously felt that she needed solitude and had taken steps to ensure that she would get it. How could she have doubted his care of her?

"Thank you, Hîthwen. I think I should like to dress and join my husband and our guest."

"Of course, my lady."

Hîthwen assisted Gilmith with her toilette – bringing her water to wash her hands and face, tying the laces of her gown and deftly braiding and pinning her hair up.

"If... if my lady does not mind my saying so, I was greatly saddened to hear of Lady Mithrellas's departure. I always knew her to be a lady of great kindness and generosity. I held her in the highest respect – as I do you, my lady, and your lord father and brother. I am so terribly sorry for your loss."

It hurt to hear the subject brought up again because it caused a tide of melancholy to rise up within Gilmith once more, and, in truth, she would much rather the subject not be mentioned again to spare her such feelings. But, nevertheless, she recognised it for the kind and well-meaning sentiments that were intended. Her parents had raised her with strong principles – to judge herself, and others, by merit and deeds rather than rank or perceived status. And so, she reached out her hand, taking the young woman's in her own, and looked at her with a soft, melancholic, smile.

"Thank you. I am honoured and most grateful for your kind concern for my family and myself. I know that my mother would greatly appreciate your opinion of her."

She could feel her lip begin to wobble traitorously at the mention of her mother. Inhaling deeply, Gilmith turned away, trying to put on a brave face. She thought of her brother's control, how calm he had been when he had first broken the news to her earlier, and wished that she could mask her feelings so well as Galador often did. If only she had his strength of character.

He had always maintained that he was too hardened for such sensitivity as hers, claiming to envy her the gentle nature she possessed. Yet now, Gilmith was beginning to consider her own character as the weaker one; for her tender sensibilities often led her to acquiesce to the desires of others above her own, and more often left her seeking direction and guidance from those with stronger personalities.

Once Hîthwen had finished attending her, Gilmith stood in front of her mirror, taking in the contrast she saw from the happy young woman who had looked back at her not yet a day before, in her wedding gown, so filled with joy and eager anticipation. Now that woman looked gaunt and grey, with sunken eyes and a blotched complexion that the quick splash of water to her cheeks could not hide.

Well, she supposed that she would just have to make-do with her appearance as it was. Her eyes were now surely suffering a drought, and a pervasive sense of numbness ensured that her nerves would, for now at least, stay in check. She was the lady of the house, there was a guest to receive and she had been too long from her husband's side. Decision made, she gave a quick cursory glance back at her reflection and made her way to the reception chambers.

Gradually, as she walked along the corridors, dim snatches of conversation could just be made out. Hearing the faint timbre of her husband's confident voice heartened Gilmith considerably, and she picked up her pace along the winding corridors, heading towards the glimpses of sound. The door to the reception chamber, she could now see, was ajar, as the odd word floated to her hearing.

"...you on your own marriage, Istaeron..."

"...thank you, yes, I..."

"...impossible situation..."

She came to stand just outside the door, her hand hovering to push it open, when she clearly heard her husband speak.

"Of course, it was only for her father's position that she was ever seen as a desirable spouse. It was certainly not a love match."

For a moment, Gilmith stood completely dumb, visibly shaking, deaf to everything but her erratic breathing. Her vision became blurred by prickling tears she had thought all cried out. How could this be true? Istaeron was her husband, the man she had loved for so long. The same man who had shown her so much care, affection and adoration. Yet, even as her mind protested in denial, the hateful words were repeated relentlessly in her head, ravaging her already grieving heart. She had heard the words from his own lips. There could be no denial.

The harrowing events of the day, coupled with this new devastating revelation were simply too much for Gilmith to cope with, and like any wounded animal, her prevailing instinct was to flee. She ran back down the corridor as swiftly and as quietly as possible so as not to make her presence known to the two men within. Once in her dress-chamber, she stopped briefly in order to collect her cloak, and then made her way quietly out of her husband's house, taking great pains to be unnoticed.

The irony of her actions did not completely pass her by – mother and daughter both taking leave in secret from their husbands within a day of one another – but an overriding sense of betrayal and despair left her little caring for opinions of her flight.

She felt it safe to believe that she would be little missed.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: "Holding in and keeping out"**

Dusk was drawing in as Galador sat alone on the beach. Looking out at the lulling waves below the coral sky, he realised the situation was hopeless. No matter what he did, how peaceful the setting he surrounded himself with, he could not stop the violent pounding of his heart-rate, the tremor of his hands, or the labour of his breathing as the fierce, relentless emotions that plagued him coursed through his hunched body.

No one thing could be labelled as the source of his unrest – his mother, life and the meddling people in the world, all merged together as the focus of his temper. His resentment and pain knotted up inside him like a huge leaden ball – governing, possessing and defying him. If he were in any mood for honesty, he would perhaps admit that he was angry with himself in particular for not having control over such overrunning emotions. He, who had always prided himself on his composure.

Focus – that was what he had been taught in his years of military training. _Focus your thoughts, hone your instincts and centre all your emotions towards the enemy. Don't lose focus, don't lose control_.

And that was precisely what he lacked. How could he compact his emotions and project them on to the enemy? What exactly was the foe in question? He could not say. It was ungovernable, so out of control. It felt as if he was stranded at sea on a boat without any oars, sails or rudder. He was powerless, frustrated, and incapable of doing anything about it.

But not wholly incapable, he suddenly thought. Perhaps a different focus was all that was required. What he desperately needed, he decided, was distraction.

An inn to the south of the city, looking over the bay and owned by a retired mariner and his family, was a popular meeting place for Galador and his friends and comrades. It was a comely place — the type of place where a man could converse over a jug of ale and laugh heartily at comradely stories. Such company, Galador was sure, would serve as a welcome diversion. And, so resolving, pleased with his decisiveness, he heaved himself up from his well-worn place in the sand and headed to the _Ship Inn_.

Upon entering the tavern, it did not take Galador long to spot five of his good friends sitting around a small table at the back of the main room – the loud jeers and laughter from that particular group made them difficult to miss, even in the crowded surroundings. He ordered a jug of ale from Halgon at the bar, trying to ignore the old man's sympathetic smiles, and made his way over to the back of the room.

When they observed Galador walking towards them several of the group passed uncertain glances to each other, covertly nudging those beside them who had yet to notice.

Utter silence descended amongst them as he reached the table. After an uncomfortable pause, in which none of the party could fully look Galador in the face, an older man by the name of Borochir bravely spoke, glancing at the others before he looked up at Galador.

"Um... we were," he coughed, "we were sorry to hear about what... happened." He finished the sentence with a hopeless gesture, not knowing what else to say.

Galador simply nodded curtly as he sat down. Another long, awkward moment of silence followed until, finally, one in the party pondered out loud about the chances of a young hopeful by the name of Candor doing well at the upcoming annual archery competition. Having skilfully sparked light-hearted conversation once again, a collective sigh seemed to pass around the group. Shoulders visibly relaxed and the tension eased a little. If Galador did not wish to raise the subject, then, his friends had already decided amongst them, neither would they. And Galador most certainly did not, which fortunately, much to the relief all concerned, meant that the issue was carefully avoided.

Candor, it was agreed after much debate, was a very promising talent with the bow and in all likelihood might even win the contest. None in the company, however, would admit that the young man's talent exceeded their own. Each of them inevitably made excuses in advance of the contest, making it clear that, were they up to their usual high standard, young Candor would stand little chance. Phrases, such as "_Well, you know, my shoulder has been causing me grief since the winter..._," and "_I have been so busy recently, I have had no chance to practice at all. Not like these other idle young men that enter...,_" were bandied about between them and loyally concurred by all.

It felt good to Galador to be able to sit like this with his old friends again, enjoy pleasant conversation and just feel more himself – the man he had been only a day ago – before the chaos. It was, he decided, a wonderful distraction from his brooding thoughts. He began to relax a little, laughed at the jokes and amusing stories around him and even joined in with the banter when one of men was teased mercilessly for his performance in the archery competition the previous year.

"I would have done much better had my toe rag of a cousin, Coruven, not tampered with my bow," protested Arthalion hotly.

This statement received an uproarious response from his companions and several raucous jokes were made about 'blaming one's equipment'. As loyal as the friends undoubtedly were to one another, the temptation amongst them for a bit of genial baiting was too much to resist.

"Of course, my friend," replied Galador in mock seriousness, getting caught up in the revelry, "if you say it was so, _we_ shall all believe you, naturally."

He paused, a mischievous glint that his friends knew so well sparked in his eyes. "And yet, wasn't your cousin in Lebennin at the time, if I recall?" He grinned, slapping Arthalion good-naturedly on the back amidst the cheers and laughter of their companions, as Arthalion spluttered denials.

"Speaking of young Coruven," said Borochir, "I hear that he has taken quite a fancy to the Lady Suiliel." He turned his head to where Suiliel's brother sat at the opposite end of the table. "Is that right, Saelon? I heard he has been mooning over her like a young pup, constantly happening to meet her on any number of occasions whilst running supposed 'errands' for his mother." Borochir laughed heartily and winked. "Ay, the intrigues of youth! Who among us has not tried that old trick?"

A few of the men laughed. Borochir had been married for several years and was simply devoted to his lovely, and very strong-willed, wife. He was convinced that marriage to a good woman was the only way to keep a man on his toes and free from boredom, and consequently, was always trying to persuade his young friends that they should follow suit.

Saelon glanced awkwardly at Galador for a moment before cautiously replying. "It is true," he said slowly, "that Coruven does seem quite keen to impress my sister."

"Well she's a fine woman, pretty and good-natured," continued Borochir, half his sentence muffled as he finished the dregs in his tankard. "He could not choose better." He put the glass down and grinned. "The only real question of course, is whether or not _she_ will have _him_. And when it comes to the inner fathoming of a woman's mind, my friends, it is impossible to guess and even less advisable to try."

Almost everyone, except Galador, joined him in his laughter.

Arthalion, in his careless, if well-intentioned, way, saw the perfect opportunity to even the score after his recent ribbing.

"Ah, but there, you see, Suiliel has always held a torch for our dashing Galador, has she not?" Grinning, he turned to Galador, without noticing the other man's now dark expression, though the others around the table had registered it and began to shift uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging worried glances.

"We were beginning to take bets on whether our noble Saelon here would have to fight off your attentions towards his sister," continued Arthalion laughingly.

"Arthalion," Saelon gave a stern warning, sending his impulsive friend a meaningful glance.

It was a warning that Arthalion ignored as he carried on blithely to Galador. "You will have to do something about this, my friend. I am sure Saelon would much rather take on Coruven in a fight than you, but we cannot have you out bested by a young upstart like my cousin!"

He laughed.

No one joined him.

Before the recent events, Galador would most likely have laughed with him, shrugging off the jibe whilst fielding back a retort of his own. This time, however, he said nothing. The hollow silence that descended became ominous, acutely uncomfortable for those at the table. His friends could see that his jaw had clenched, his fingers fisted around his tankard as he struggled to draw in a deep steadying breath.

Then, suddenly, almost violently, without a word or backward look, Galador jerked out of his seat and walked away, leaving the five very bewildered and concerned friends behind him.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: "To the arms that love me the best"**

Gilmith ran through the streets of the city, clutching at her cloak, the hood pulled up, paying little attention to her steps and ignoring the curious glances from those she rushed by, aware only of her final destination. Light was fading – the streets began to change around her, causing an uneasy sense of foreboding.

Her pace quickened frantically.

When eventually she reached the courtyard of her father's house, she finally came to a shuddering stop. Her breathing laboured from the frantic activity, she wanted to lean against the outer wall to steady herself, but seeing a few people were milling about the yard, going about their usual business, she quickly and silently slipped unnoticed through a small archway to the side that lead to the gardens.

A stone bench under a large overhanging tree provided a welcome sanctuary. Gilmith sat under its protective canopy, drew her knees up to her chin, her arms wrapped around her legs, and bent her head into her body to muffle the sound of her weeping.

Question after question plagued her. Why had he done it? How could she have been so blind? Did he care anything for her at all other than for mercenary gains? She thought desperately over every word, every look that she had cherished throughout their courtship, trying to identify any sign of falsehood. But, try as she might, she just could not reconcile the Istaeron that she had fallen in love with to the false-hearted man she married. She felt blinded, ridiculous and naive, and flinched inwardly at how easy it must have been for him to hoodwink her. What a truly misguided and pathetic creature she must be! How he must have laughed at her foolishness and the easiness, with which she was deceived.

Her fingers gripped painfully into the flesh of her thighs as she hugged herself. Oh, how she needed her mother now! She needed Mithrellas' guidance, strength, understanding, and that comforting warmth that mothers inherently provide. And, perhaps selfishly, but more understandably, she wanted Mithrellas to tell her what she should do – how to act, and what to reveal and to whom. For what should she do now? She had discovered the truth and ran away from her deceitful husband, but had no idea where next to go. Had her mother been there she would have known exactly what to do.

However, no such guidance was there for Gilmith. Her father and brother surely had their own problems to deal with, and she was loath to burden them with hers. So the decisions would be down to her own, clearly judgement. Imrazôr would provide sanctuary for her if she needed it, but for how long? Would she truly be allowed to abandon her marriage, even if the terrible truth was revealed? She supposed that she would have to face Istaeron sooner or later, but she could not bear the thought, sure that despite her own feelings, once they met again he would be able to weaken her resolve. Certain that, even with the knowledge she now had, one kind word from him would have her stupid, foolish heart blinded yet again.

"Gilmith?" The familiar voice pulled her sharply out of her melancholic introspection. "What are you doing here?"

She looked up to see Galador standing above, his arms folded imposingly across his body. She had not heard him approach, nor noticed how dark it had become. The moon was high in the sky behind his form, casting a long shadow across her. Straightening herself a little in her seat, she put her feet down to rest on the grass, folder her hands in her lap and tried to look as composed as possible.

"I… I have returned, Brother… for the foreseeable future." She could feel her lip start to quiver again so she ducked her head down quickly. "I thought it would be best…"

Crouching down on his haunches in front of her, Galador lifted up her chin to examine her blotched cheeks and puffy eyes.

"Did you, now?" His brow furrowed contemplatively. "It is usual then, I suppose, for a young woman to leave her husband the very day after they wed?"

His voice was calm and implacable, if a little edged with sarcasm, his hold firm on her chin, exposing all the visible signs of distress that Gilmith was failing to conceal.

"I…" she mumbled, unable to match his scrutiny. Her lip quivered more forcefully as a few tears escaped down her face.

With a muttered oath, Galador took a gentle hold of her shoulders as he bent his head to make his eyesight level with her own, searching her eyes.

"What did he do, Gilmith? Did he harm you in any way?"

When she remained silent, his grip tightened as he shook her shoulder slightly.

"Tell me, Sister! If he has done anything to distress you, I swear he will come to regret it."

But, despite the urgency and anger in his voice, Gilmith could not answer him. She could do nothing but give way to her body's violent trembling, and, as a noisy sob escaped her lips, she fell forward into the protective warmth of her brother's body, clinging on to him tightly as the floodgate once again opened to her tears.

Galador stood up, pulling her gently to her feet, wrapped his arms around her and murmured soft words into her hair, cajoling her to tell him the cause of her tears, assuring her that he would take care of it all.

Gilmith clung to him and listened, comforted by his words, but unable to explain the situation to him. She had come back to her father's house after only a day of marriage – it was too painful, too raw and humiliating to have to expose herself over such cruel folly. She simply wanted to forget. Oh, Valar! How she just wanted the wrenching pain to stop!

She pressed her face into Galador's shoulder, unconsciously shaking her head in silent negation. Galador was always so strong – unlike herself. He would never allow anyone to get the better of him, to deceive him so severely. He was always so calm and thoughtful, even under pressure. Here he was now, holding her, protecting her even through his own grief, and all she could do was to weep! Such comparison between them shamed her. He was capable, sensible and tough, whereas she was weak! So wretched and useless! She detested herself for her folly and Istaeron for exposing her to it.

Perhaps that was precisely how she had been so easily won over by her husband, so easily cheated. Istaeron was of the same mould as her brother – determined, self-assured and controlled – and perhaps she had always felt she needed that — someone strong and capable enough to look after, and make decisions for a pathetic, foolish girl like her.

"Foolish, foolish, foolish," she whispered. Repeating the word over and over her voice grew louder, and without realising she lifted her hand and thumped it repeatedly against Galador's chest – hitting out at him blindly – each word punctuated by a slam of her fist .

Galador, alarmed at first, allowed it for a few moments, before taking hold of her hands. He gently shackled them in front of her, high against his chest, securing them both in one of his own large palms, whilst his free arm went around Gilmith's waist to steady her.

"Gilmith," Galador said once she seemed to calm a little. "Please tell me what has happened to hurt you so much. If it is something Istaeron has done, then he and I shall have words." He lifted her face up to his again, looking down at her earnestly. "He _will_ make amends to you, Sister, I promise you that."

He was wrong to think this idea would sooth Gilmith. Instead, she clung to him tighter, burying her face further into his chest, then she shook her head vehemently in denial.

"No! Please... please, you must not!"

Galador could feel her trembling against him when she stammered her plea; he could hear the panic and dread in her voice.

"It is not what you think, I just... I cannot see him. Please! Do not make me do that... Not that."

Galador held her for a long time, gently rocking her in his arms, a forbidding expression on his face. Never had he seen his sister in such a state. Earlier that day, yes, she had been greatly distressed by news of their mother, but nothing like this – not almost to the point of hysteria.

"Very well," he murmured eventually. "I see we were wrong to entrust him with your care if he has brought you so much distress. I swear to you, I will not allow him to do so again."

His arms tightened around her fractionally for a moment before her let her go, moving one arm around her shoulder to support her.

"Come, Sister, let us get you inside."

-

A/N: I apologise that it has been so long since my last update. RL, family, work -- the usual stuff -- all got in the way. However, I have lots more time now so the chapters should be coming a lot more regularly. Chapter 10 is practically done and 11 has been started.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: "I'm right there with you. I can match your pain"**

It was not long before Galador had to enforce his promise to Gilmith. Early the next morning, he headed straight to the gatehouse to give necessary instruction to the warden, should Istaeron decide to come looking for his absentee wife.

Unfortunately, he was a little too late. His brother-in-law had already arrived, had been shown through the gate and was making his way across the courtyard as Galador approached.

"Galador!" Istaeron surged forward when he caught sight of him. He was clearly agitated, and judging from his heavy breathing, Galador would guess that he had been running at a fast pace all the way from his household.

"Is she here? Is Gilmith here?"

"She is," Galador replied quietly, sending Istaeron a chilling look, at which most men would have paled. His shoulders squared and he brought himself to his full height when he faced his brother-in-law.

Istaeron's face lit, and an audible sigh of relief at this news escaped him, but he failed to notice Galador's rigid stance.

"Thank Elbereth." He ran his shaky hand over his brow. "When she left without a word to anyone, I feared that in her present condition she might put herself at risk. Where is she?"

The words came out in an almost frantic rush, and without waiting for a reply he started to walk hurriedly towards the house.

Galador, instead of moving aside, stepped in front, blocking Istaeron's path.

"She is being well taken care of." His voice was decidedly cool as he stood stiff, glaring at Istaeron, daring him to contradict.

"I do not doubt it," frowned Istaeron, disconcerted, "but I shall judge her state for myself."

There was an ominous pause.

Like a cat playing cruelly with a mouse to be eaten, Galador remained silent for a moment before offhandedly replying, "That will not be necessary."

Istaeron's head reared back as if Galador had dealt him a blow. The look on his face seemed indignation mingled with surprise.

"What is all this nonsense? Step aside, Galador, I wish to see Gilmith." Istaeron tried to push past once again, but Galador intercepted him, barring his way with the bulk of his body.

"Gilmith arrived here last night in a terrible condition," Galador stated coldly. "Am I to understand that you are here now because you have only just discovered that she was missing?"

Istaeron's look sharpened at the implied accusation.

"She was greatly upset when I brought her home yesterday. And exhausted. I..." He sighed, and his eyes flicked to the ground for a brief moment. "I did not wish to disturb her. She had made it clear, at the time, that company was the last thing she desired."

He straightened, giving Galador a determined look. "I only discovered that she was gone this morning and, as you can imagine, I was extremely concerned."

"Perhaps not enough, considering that she was able to leave your house unnoticed, even in the state she was in," Galador mocked. "Some might say that was incredibly careless of you, Istaeron."

Istaeron's jaw hardened.

"Are you implying that I cannot take care of my wife?" he gritted out through his teeth.

Both men stood glaring at one another; each raised to his full stature as they squared against each other – both of their tempers barely restrained. It was a battle of wills – and not one that Galador intended to lose. He had the upper hand; Istaeron was on enemy territory, and from the look of him, he was uncertain of his standing.

Was he embarrassed about his behaviour towards Gilmith? Or did he simply not expect any resistance?

"As I said before, Gilmith was greatly distressed when she came here yesterday. She obviously knew that she would be well cared for by her family." Galador's voice remained infuriatingly cool and taunting.

"I am her husband!" Istaeron roared; his whole body pulsed with frustration.

"Yet, she left your house and sought sanctuary here. Why would she have done that without cause?"

For a moment, Istaeron looked flummoxed. A deep frown marked his face as he stepped back a little, drawing in a heavy, steadying breath. His hand gripped the back of his neck in an exasperated gesture.

"I have been forbearing enough," he said finally, aiming for calm in his tone. "I realise that this is a difficult time for you at present, Galador — that you are understandably not yourself – but I _will_ speak with my wife now," he added determinedly.

"My _sister_," replied Galador slowly, with a heavy emphasis on the relationship, "has made it very clear that she has no wish to see you. I do not know what you have done to upset her, but I can assure you, should I find out, you will not find me as amenable as I am now."

Istaeron bristled. "Am I to take that as a threat?"

"Consider it a warning."

A crimson flush coloured Istaeron's face, his nostrils flared and his hands clenched tightly by his sides. It looked as if he would like nothing better than to throw one of his fists towards Galador's face.

_Go ahead,_ thought Galador contemptuously. _Just give me a reason to flatten you to the ground where you stand._

But, instead, Istaeron drew in another deep breath, steadying himself. He looked briefly from side to side, noting that the spectacle of their confrontation was beginning to attract a great deal of attention.

Clearly unwilling to aggravate a conflict in his father-in-law's house, he took several steps back, his eyesight still locked with Galador's hard gaze.

"I shall leave for now." He turned slowly and walked towards the gatehouse, turning his head back around just before he was out of earshot. "But mark this, Galador, I shall be back in due course to collect my wife. And then she _will_ return home with me – where she belongs."

-O-

Several hours passed before Galador saw his sister. He eventually found her in the gardens, sitting under a pretty stone veranda to the side of the house that offered good views across the lawn, and the sea beyond. It had been one of their mother's favourite spots – her sanctuary when she was in want of peaceful solitude. It was both quiet and secluded, and so gave the rare luxury of privacy in a busy household. Gilmith, however, did not appear to be enjoying the views, but was instead staring dejectedly down at her hands as he approached. The beautiful vista was ignored.

Galador sat down on the bench beside her.

"Your husband was here looking for you," he said quietly, examining her downturned head to get a better look at her features.

Her head snapped up at his words – panic etched across her face. It was then that he could see that her usually fine complexion was blotched and pale, while her eyes were dark and puffy.

A fresh bout of anger assailed Galador. _What has Istaeron done to her to make so upset?_ He had never seen Gilmith like this and, frankly, it disturbed him greatly. Usually she was so happy and carefree, with a calm and peaceful quality to her character; not nervous and maudlin like this.

"I sent him away. As I promised I would," he assured her gently.

She nodded; her shoulders relaxed again as her gaze returned to her lap.

Galador had hoped that the news of Istaeron's arrival would rouse some bit of information from her about what had occurred between them. She had been uncommonly reticent on the subject the night before, and that was something that surprised him, for Gilmith had always been very open with him. It was usually Galador that she confided in and looked to for guidance. He was eager to listen to her again, but not matter how he had pushed and cajoled, she had remained mute on the subject. Reluctant to push her again, instead he waited... and waited. It soon became clear that she was not going to speak about it of her own volition. He wished then that he had forced more information out of Istaeron when he had had the chance. But his main concern at the time was to get him as far away from Gilmith as possible.

A heavy silence descended between them. Gilmith was looking down at her lap, Galador – staring blindly at the horizon.

Eventually, it was she who broke their individual contemplations. Her head was still turned away from him, and she spoke so quietly that he nearly missed her question.

"Has there been discord between you and Suiliel?"

Galador's head turned suddenly in surprise, his gaze sharpened, and, had Gilmith looked up, she could have perhaps read a glimmer of guilt in his expression.

"What makes you say so?"

"She came to call earlier, insisting that she be put to good use somehow," Gilmith explained, looking up at him finally. "She is very sweet, and a good friend." Her delicate brows furrowed as she threw a faintly accusing look in his way. "I thought it strange that she did not ask after you, as she usually would – not even in polite enquiry. And when your name _was_ mentioned she looked decidedly awkward. I wondered whether the two of you had had some falling out."

Galador was unsure of what to say. His own code of honour meant that he abhorred lies and deceit, but he was reluctant to speak about the incident on the shore the previous day.

"Suiliel has said nothing to me that I could take offense at," he confessed finally, after a long pause.

It was true, he reasoned to himself, even if he did fail to mention his own damning contribution to that particular conversation.

"Then have _you_ said something to upset _her_?" came Gilmith's speedy retort, making it clear that she was not fooled in the slightest. One of her eyebrows was raised sternly, and she sent him a hard look reminiscent of their old nursemaid.

Galador returned a half, rueful smile of unwilling admiration. This sister of his was far more discerning than she gave herself credit for.

"I realise that, for some reason, you have always ignored her obvious affection for you," she persisted, her tone gaining some indignation to it, "but surely you cannot disregard–"

"Gilmith," he cut across sharply. "Please, spare me the romantic advice. Given the current state of your marriage, I would say you are hardly in a position to lecture me on such matters."

Flushing at the censure, Gilmith went back to staring down at her hands with a mumbled, "Yes... yes, you are quite right, Brother. Forgive me for interfering."

Galador sighed heavily, cursing himself silently for upsetting her again.

"No. No, Gilmith, I am the one in need of forgiveness." He reached out to take her hand, squeezing it gently. "I should not have spoken so harshly. I have no wish to upset you."

Gilmith nodded, seeming to understand and squeezed his hand back in return.

They sat together, holding hands in utter silence, for a long time afterwards.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: "How can I decide what's right, when you're clouding up my mind?"**

The atmosphere at home was swiftly becoming unbearable for Galador. Out of sheer desperation, he stormed out of the gate, losing himself in the streets of the city, in need of escape from the confines of the house.

His sister had taken to moping about the place in maudlin silence, wandering about like a wraith, but putting on a damnable brave face whenever someone spoke to her in what, he could only assume, was an excuse for a facade. His father, on the other hand, had given up all pretence of putting on any kind of front, and had shut himself away from the world, allowing only his steward into his cloistered sanctuary to bring him his meals.

Galador was becoming increasingly frustrated with them. It was incomprehensible to him how they could just allow the situation to get the better of them and sink into that kind of pathetic, listless depression. To add to his annoyance, they both refused any assistance from him – denying him the ability to even try and remedy the situation. Neither seemed to realise that, unlike them, he needed to be able to _do _something! He could not just sit around being useless and watching the two of them waste to death.

In fairness, Gilmith had seemed content enough that he had sent her husband off, and at the time Galador had congratulated himself on his cool handling of the situation. But he was still none the wiser as to what might have happened between them – there had been no resolution – and that irked him. Right now, he dearly regretted not thumping Istaeron flat on his back when he had the chance. He should have grabbed him by the collar and _shaken_ a confession out of him; damn the consequences.

His feet pounded against the earth as momentum carried him through the streets. He had no idea of any direction he was walking in – he was simply moving forwards, his head bent down as he glowered at the ground directly in front of him.

As he turned a corner, noise and vibrant smells suddenly infiltrated his awareness. Galador looked up in surprise to see that his feet had unknowingly brought him to the market square at the heart of the city.

Midday had long since past, and so trade was beginning to wind down, but nevertheless the square was still milling with people buying and selling their wares. The strong salty smell of all kinds of seafood and exotic Harad spices, that was unique to the Belfalas market, hung heavily in the air. Stalls stood side by side in four rows and created three long avenues of vivid colour, wide enough for people to walk down either side.

Galador was just registering these familiar sights and smells when his gaze focused on Suiliel, basket in hand, inspecting cloth on one of the stalls some way down the avenue that was directly in front of him. She was lifting up a piece of rich red fabric in her free hand to better inspect it. Even from a distance, thanks to the keen eyesight bestowed from his half-elven parentage, Galador could see the movement of her hands stroking the material through her slender fingers, feeling its weight and assessing its quality. A long dark lock of hair came loose from its tie at the nape of her neck and fell across her face. Unconsciously, she lightly brushed it back away from her brow, securing it behind her ear in a fluid gesture. Galador's eyes avidly followed the miscreant tendril as it fell down across her shoulder, curling lightly against her collarbone.

She put the fabric down again, said something to the merchant at the stall, and Galador knew then that she would turn her head directly in line with where he stood in a mere matter of seconds.

He made to slip away, retreating backwards, because he preferred not to have to confront that uncomfortable moment when she would lock gazes with his when neither would know how to behave. His urge to take flight shamed him, but he was convinced that he would not be able to meet the evidence of shock, hurt, or disgust that would surely be on her face when she looked at him.

However, before Galador had a chance to step away, someone approached Suiliel from the other direction. She turned her head the opposite way to where Galador stood and was engaged in conversation. A smile lit her face when she recognised the young man who had walked over to her.

Galador had not seen Coruven for well over a year, because the younger man had been staying in Lebennin with his mother's family. He certainly had grown much since Galador had last seen him. Then, Coruven had still been an adolescent in many ways – all gangly limbs and cocksure foolishness. But now, he looked like a man. His time away seemed to have visibly matured him a great deal. Having reached full height and stature, he had lost that lankiness of youth, and gained an air of assured confidence.

Perversely, all thoughts of escape fled from Galador's mind. Instead, he became wholly focussed on the sight of Coruven and Suiliel, disregarding how he might look to any passing onlookers, standing stock still at the end of the square.

They were laughing at something. Coruven was gesticulating comically, re-enacting a scene and Suiliel giggled at his antics. Then Coruven must have paid her a compliment, Galador guessed, because she gave a slight self-conscious laugh, a pretty blush stained her cheeks when she looked down at her basket in embarrassment.

She had always been shy of praise, he thought, remembering when Galador and Saelon had trained together whilst she watched from the sidelines. They had never allowed her to join in the practice, though she had begged them, but they had let her assist with their equipment when she requested. Suiliel had always blushed furiously whenever he thanked her for it, even at so young an age.

Galador was so engrossed in his thoughts that he failed to notice Arthalion approach from behind and come to stand beside him.

"Well met, Galador," his friend said genially.

"Well met." The greeting was returned with a brief cursory nod in the other man's direction, though Galador barely registered his presence.

There was an awkward pause in which neither spoke. Arthalion shifted from one foot to the other until he eventually plucked up the courage to speak.

"About... um... about what I said before," he muttered, "when we met at Haldon's... I..." His shoulders shrugged. "I only meant to jest..."

"Forget it," answered Galador abruptly, not really listening as he carried on staring at the couple ahead of them.

Arthalion relaxed before turning his attention to the direction of Galador's looks. He immediately recognised the sight of his cousin and Suiliel laughing and smiling in light conversation some way ahead. Not seeing much to comment on about this, he threw a curious look back at his friend, who was standing tense.

It was a well known secret that Suiliel had been sweet on Galador since she was just a girl. She had always held him in awe, tried to follow him around like a devoted puppy – much to her brother's chagrin and their friends' amusement – but Galador had never seemed to notice, or at least never given any indication that he was aware of her infatuation. They had all assumed that he was either blind, or more likely, it simply had not bothered him, but not wanting to hurt her by having to reject her attentions, he ignored it.

But this made the looks that Galador was throwing at Suiliel and Coruven, and his previous attitude at _The Ship _when Suiliel's name had been mentioned, strangely incongruous.

"My cousin fancies himself as a charmer, I believe," Arthalion muttered, aiming for a casual tone as his eyes flittered back and forth between Coruven and Galador, trying to discern some betraying sign from the stiff figure beside him.

"He has grown much since I saw him last," conceded Galador. "I had not expected him to be so..."

"Tall?" Arthalion supplied, as Galador seemed to wrestle with a description.

"Handsome," eventually Galador admitted, his jaw tensed.

"Ay, he has grown into his face well enough, I suppose," Arthalion agreed slowly, shrugging his shoulders in a negligent fashion, avoiding any comment that could be inflammatory.

Coruven seemed to ask something of Suiliel, which she clearly agreed to. The young man reached out with one hand, taking possession of her basket, whilst offering his other arm out for her to take hold of – a gesture she accepted by slipping her hand through the crook of his elbow.

Silence stretched between the two men who had been covertly watching the pair. Arthalion, realising the futility of it, finally gave up on trying to make conversation that would not infuriate Galador in his present state. He turned to leave with a 'fare thee well' to his friend.

Galador did not notice. Instead, he remained staring at Suiliel and her suitor as they moved away in the opposite direction along the street, his jaw set and his hands clenched into fists at is sides.


End file.
